


A Sip Of Gold And Someone To Drink In

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Series: Home Brew [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the Amis don't remember when Grantaire stopped being 'just the bartender' and became part of the group. But one can recall it perfectly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sip Of Gold And Someone To Drink In

No one can remember when Grantaire was hired as a bartender at the Musain, or when he stopped being ‘just the bartender’ and started being a friend, a part of their group, but it happened. The particulars of it don’t seem to matter.

The regulars of the Musain know that if Grantaire isn’t filling drinks behind the bar, he’s sitting at a table not far from the group of students known collectively as Les Amis, listening to their golden leader speak as he polishes a glass over and over again. Regulars know that if a customer pokes him and beckons him back over to the bar, he will politely get them a drink, but his eyes will stray back to the speaker in the centre of the room.

Grantaire entertains as much as he listens, joking with the Amis, flirting with Courfeyrac, wrestling with Bahorel on the floor of the bar, laughing and yelling. No one can throw them out because, well, he’s the bartender, and they’re only playing. Enjolras watches his antics with an expression that Grantaire can never name or place. They’re not enemies, but they’re still not friends. He’s too enamoured of Enjolras and Enjolras is too pitying of him and he wishes he could have a proper conversation but it always devolves into fighting or speeches. And yet he stays and listens.

Les Amis don’t remember when Grantaire melded into their midst. It’s like he’s always been there, like he’s always been the admiring thorn in Enjolras’s side, like he’s always been there to make scathing remarks or sarcastic quips that make the others laugh. Bahorel and Jehan feel like they’ve known him their whole lives.

Grantaire is perpetually at the bar. The Musain is his element, his comfort zone. If he’s not serving drinks, he’s drinking them. If he’s not listening to someone speak, he’s the one doing the speaking. If he’s not watching someone (probably Bahorel) fight, he’s the one fighting. He is there any time any of the Amis walk inside, night or day. He is there when the bar opens and there when it closes. He cleans the glasses, the counter, the tables, the floor, with such immaculate care and lovingness that sometimes the Amis joke that the bar is his child. He always smirks and says if you’re going to spend ninety percent of your life in a place, you should probably keep it in good shape. They usually agree.

Les Amis don’t remember when Grantaire became one of them, but Grantaire will never forget it. He still remembers listening to the rants and speeches and flourishing words from his place at the bar, remembers wiping down the tables of the group of friends just to be closer to the group of enthusiastic students, to be closer to their glowing leader. He can still remember muttering contradictory comments under his breath in reply to Enjolras’ words, remembers Bahorel or Courfeyrac laughing, remembers Enjolras offering him a chance to explain his views. Remembers the dismissal in Enjolras’ voice as he broke down Grantaire’s argument. Remembers the strange hope-thing that he felt as Enjolras broke down his scepticism and built around it a stronger, more powerful ambition.

He remembers the night he was no longer hanging around at the edges. Remembers when Enjolras had raised a brow at him from his seat on the table and asked “Well? Grantaire, aren’t you going to join us?”

He’d spluttered for a moment before nodding and setting the glass he was cleaning on the counter, moving around the bar to sit at a table with Courfeyrac and Bahorel.

“Oh, at a loss for words for once, eh, R?” Courfeyrac had joked in his ear, too quiet for Enjolras to hear. Grantaire punched his arm hard enough to nearly knock him out of the chair, but Courfeyrac hadn’t stopped leering happily at him and Grantaire had given up and ignored him.

Enjolras’ speech was nothing new, but Grantaire had felt newly gripped by his words, by the way the light caught his hair and lit it into a halo, by the inspiring sound of his voice, by the way he brought all of the Amis together and made them into group he would soon call his family. And Enjolras had thanked him afterward for properly joining the meeting and said he hoped he’d keep coming. Grantaire had barely been able to choke out an incredulous “Of course!” before turning away to hide his burning cheeks in the dishes that needed doing.

That night, he’d stayed awake for far too long, watching the light of some streetlamp outside wink and sway in the reflection through a bottle of whisky across the room. He refused to think about golden speeches and gilded hair, refused to think about the eyes that had stayed on him for moments too long, refused to think about the hope-thing that rose in his chest at the sound of a voice. But, like everything else in his life, trying to stop himself from doing something usually failed. He gave in, and Enjolras’ face floated in the scotch bottle, framed by a winking halo of light.


End file.
